


Black Sun Rising

by Cohens_Girl



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Feels, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Introspection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-25 17:11:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4969399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cohens_Girl/pseuds/Cohens_Girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happened outside Rinde, in those long hours before the dawn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Sun Rising

**Author's Note:**

> Well Holy-Moly, I actually got a fic finished. And much like everything I've ever written, absolutely nothing happens! Hurrah! Introspection and Angst ahead, you have been warned. One day I'll come up with an actual plot, I promise. 
> 
> You need to have read The Last Wish for this to make any sense at all. At all. Spoilers abound if you haven't got to the section with the Djinn. Dandelion makes a twazzock of himself, as per. I've actually not played much of any of the games and only read the books so if it seems OOC, that could be why. 
> 
> I always wondered what the Hell Geralt was thinking while he was waiting to get into the city and find a cure. Sapkowski gives you these tiny hints about how deeply he does actually care, but he's so emotionally inconsistent (course, we all know he loves his idiot friend, really.) It's kinda like pre-slash, but it could just be bromance. Your call.
> 
> Rated Teen for a little bad language.

 

* * *

 

 

The fire is crackling, the steady popping of embers a rhythmic harmony to the low, careful cadence of the elves, who continue to talk quietly amongst themselves. The atmosphere is heavy but not cloying, a heady warmth settling like a blanket on Geralt's skin. The smell of smoke and horses and stale clothes that lingers in the air is a familiar one, and should be a comfort.

 

He cannot breathe.

 

It's not guilt, or not exactly; there is a hint of it, of course - creeping up his spine like hag-fingers, turning his blood slow and cold in his veins. But no, not guilt alone, and not fear either. Fear is something Geralt has spent a lifetime learning to control and he isn't about to succumb to it when his friend needs him at his most level-headed.

 

Dandelion. _Bloody_ Dandelion, always talking and never listening. Just this once, why couldn't the idiot take some notice of what he was saying?

 

That particular train of thought is well-worn and fruitless, so Geralt chooses not to pursue it.

 

Not fear, then, but guilt and uncertainty - indignation and _anger_ \- all rolled into some grotesque concoction in his belly, black as tar and twice as heavy. This is something that Geralt must fix; there is no other answer to be had. Dandelion is his friend and his responsibility and even if his code as a Witcher didn't demand it to be so, his heart would. He isn't supposed to inflict his life on others, to allow those that he – that he – _that are in his care_ to suffer such pain. He can recall, with clear and vivid clarity, the fury that burned in his chest when the elf-woman, Toruviel, had smashed Dandelion's lute to pieces; can see in his mind's eye the other man's face, lily-white and pinched tight to keep from tears, and remembers the rage it kindled, knowing that Dandelion's lute was his life.

 

But his voice. That's what the elf-man had said; lucky to talk but to sing - ...To lose his voice would be worse than the lute, worse than death, and Geralt cannot allow it.

 

Right here, however, right now, in this warm room filled with the intonations of low voices and familiar smells, he cannot breathe. Guilt and uncertainty and indignation and anger and _fear_ – yes, fear, whether or not he wants to acknowledge it, a poisonous lump in his throat – it all feeds into that terrible black pit called desperation. He cannot meditate, or rather will not risk it, does not know what might happen while he is untethered from the world; he cannot force his way into the city without hurting his plight, if not Dandelion himself. He can do nothing but what he is doing : sitting silent and still on the floor beside the pallet and waiting for a period that feels infinite.He is defenceless, a mass of flayed open flesh - like a raw nerve, exposed to a quality of pain he could not have known before now. Travelling alone had shielded him from this particular torture, this...

 

This specific brand of helplessness.

 

Dandelion's fingers, long and delicate and ashen, hang slack beside his face; Geralt instinctively rests his head against them, stomach turning as he considers whether or not they will ever play again. For all his pomp, for all his foul tongued ignorance and terrible womanising, the other man is honestly the best lutenist Geralt has ever witnessed. His voice, though clearly trained, has that strange, ethereal, unquantifiable beauty that common-folk call talent.

 

His voice...

 

“I'm sorry.” Geralt murmurs, quiet enough that no one will hear. “I should have protected you.”

 

Dandelion whimpers softly in response, then wheezes wetly. It sounds bloody - torn and painful, probably because his larynx or his throat or whatever that damn Djinn got his hands on is ripped to shreds. Or worse, perhaps, something unquantifiable, something that isn't physical, isn't _fixable_. Geralt dares to raise his head and lay his eyes on the man; a fresh rivulet of blood runs down the trail that has already dried black on his chin, and his chest is heaving with what appears to be a considerable effort. His face is grey as the dead.

 

Geralt shifts restlessly.

 

He wonders if Dandelion truly recognises his presence, if his friend even feels the pressure of the point at which their skin connects, of the forehead resting so lightly against his palm. Sighing, Geralt pulls away and takes the damp, crimson-stained cloth sitting in a bowl of bloody water, carefully climbs up to clean the other man's chin. This is something he can do – as of this particular moment, the _only_ thing. Dandelion huffs pathetically, eyes large and child-like, staring up at him. Geralt supposes that, at the very least, this saves him from brooding any further on whether or not the other man knows he is not alone.

 

“You make for a terrible travelling companion.” He says, as conversationally as he knows how. “Antagonising every person in need of my services. Impregnating all the local virgins. Never following instructions.” Dandelion coughs; he could be frowning but his eyes are so cloudy, it's impossible to tell. Geralt sighs again, resting a very gentle hand upon the troubadour’s chest, concentrating on the way it shudders as it inflates, jerks as it deflates.

 

It feels like dying. He wonders what he will do – what part of himself he might lose - if Dandelion dies before dawn breaks. This was why he had no companions before Dandelion. Getting attached to things is so very dangerous and, no matter what he tells himself, impossible to avoid.

 

“I'm sorry.” He whispers again, and Dandelion twitches under him. “I will fix this.” A shaking hand, cold as the grave, wraps gingerly around his wrist. Geralt doesn't smile, can't, _won't_ lie like that. “I will fix this.” He repeats, voice hard; it is the only promise he knows how to give.

 

“Ggggkkkkkhhhhh...” Dandelion hisses brokenly, before turning to cough more blood onto the pillow – he convulses once, looking ready to vomit, then goes limp again. “Kkkhhhheeeee...” Tugging feebly at Geralt's wrist, he sniffles pitifully, throat jumping. Geralt doesn't know what he wants, except perhaps for the pain to stop. Since that isn't in power, he tells the other man to be quiet.

 

His obedience is jarring, and the silence – the silence holds them like a fist, the fingers curling tighter and tighter with each passing second. Whatever Dandelion wants to say, he thinks, will probably be lost forever; in lieu of words, the other man simply stares, plaintive and somewhat urgent – but Geralt doesn't understand, doesn't know what he could mean to say. It is a language he has never been able to grasp the fundamentals of, one that has been purposefully made foreign to him.

 

He feels the gaze of the elves like a prickle on the back of his neck, whips his head around to stare back, steel-knife eyes sharp as any blade; one attempts a sympathetic smile, to which he glowers darkly, a wolf with his hackles raised. What do these bastards know of what Dandelion is to him? His only true companion, the only man stupid enough to travel with him willingly.

 

Dandelion, for his part, keens miserably and presses his thumb into Geralt's wrist. He wants comfort, Geralt supposes, but that is not a task he is well-acquainted with. Instead he grumbles,

 

“Quiet. I told you not to touch it. I told you to leave the damn thing alone.” as if that would ever make a difference, where Dandelion is concerned.

 

_I don't want him to die_ , Geralt's mind supplies, unhelpfully. _He's my friend and I don't want him to die_. Even now, the thought is something of a revelation; something of an admission, in all honesty, and it settles like a lead weight in his gut.

 

Dandelion pulls at his wrist - once, twice, blinking sluggishly. His fingers are so very cold.

 

“Stop it.” The Witcher hisses, but allows it anyway. Three times, four, five, each one fainter than the last -

 

Another whistling wheeze -

 

And he goes limp as a newborn pup.

 

Geralt's first instinct is panic, his second an uncontrollable surge of grief; his third and prevailing reaction is pragmatism, which drives him to hover a hand in front of his friend's mouth. Short, ragged puffs of air beat weakly against his skin, allowing him to make his prognosis.

 

Definitely alive, but worsening by the minute.

 

And how many hours until the dawn? Two? Three? Too many, and nothing to be done until it is too late.

 

Geralt curses darkly, filthily, with a malice so vile he does not quite recognise himself. Is this what friendship is? Wearing someone else’s pain over your skin? Losing your damn mind trying to grow eyes in the back of your head so that you can protect someone who hasn't the slightest idea how to take care of himself?

 

He's a fool. A bloody fool. Vesemir taught him better than this, he knows how _stupid_ this is, knows this will damn well be the end of him and he can't _stop_ , can't _stop_ the futile fear that crawls in his blood and wraps itself around his bones. Dandelion was right – has _always_ been right – every time he poked fun at how pleased Geralt was to have a companion. It had been so miserable, so monochrome, so empty and instead, instead he had chosen to be so _fucking stupid._

 

No.

 

This will not happen.

 

This cannot happen.

 

“You insufferable _idiot. Do not die_. All right?” Of course the man says nothing – perhaps will never speak again, never _wake_ again – and something bleak and ugly twists in his chest, something familiar and recognisable and _safe_ , that makes Geralt school his face into indifference and push himself off the pallet.

 

He doesn't look back. To look back would be to admit defeat, and that is the one thing he cannot do.

 

Instead he stalks across the room, presses his hands into the stone walls, lets it become him; cold, hard, immovable.

 

A single, deep breath.

 

The moment passes.

 

The fire is crackling, a steady popping of embers slowly dying down to dust and Geralt - he stands before the window, counting down the minutes until the first sun-shafts of dawn bleed grey into the obsidian sky.

 


End file.
